


something about this kid

by emullz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Irondad, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26386933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emullz/pseuds/emullz
Summary: “I got in plenty of fights I couldn’t win before I used a serum to cheat the system. I know what it’s like to need a buddy looking out for you. Mine set a pretty good example.”It did make sense. And as much as the little voice in Peter's head was telling him how hurt Tony would be if he found out, it was easy to rationalize. Peter could ask for help without feeling like he was letting Tony down. And then, maybe, he could stop freaking him out by showing up full of bullet holes.“So how do we do this?”a story in which steve and bucky take partial custody of one peter parker without tony's knowledge, and the emotional fallout of such a decision.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 21
Kudos: 105





	something about this kid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WriteThroughTheNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/gifts).



> ok here's the thing i tried not to be a tony hater and i don't think i was but i am team cap and i think it's pretty obvious. as for the content warning, the opening scene has some bullets and punching and discussion of blood as spidey gets patched up but you should be good with the rest of the work!
> 
> beyond that just read and have fun and love peter parker as much as i do please and thank you

Peter knew he wasn’t supposed to go out when he felt like this. Nobody had ever specifically told him otherwise, but he wasn’t an idiot, either. He felt like shit—more than he usually did, at least—and that meant he wasn’t as vigilant, or more reckless, or some combination of the two that made it really dumb for him to go on patrol. But he was Spiderman, and under the mask, he was Peter Parker, and _that_ meant he could take Flash calling him “Pisspants” after an unfortunate water fountain incident only if he could take out his frustration and embarrassment by saving lives. It struck him as a much healthier coping mechanism than most kids his age had.

Or, at least it did _._

That night, well. He had been lightheaded when he got home from school and going straight to the lab to put in some extra hours of research certainly hadn’t helped. Peter was impressed he was staying on his feet, what with the fact that after almost of week of all-nighters trying to both study for midterms and meet the deadline for the expo Mr. Stark wanted him to show his research off in he’d managed maybe four hours of sleep, tops. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and helium at the same time, and when he added swinging between buildings to the mix, well. So what if he had to sit down on a roof every now and then to let the dizziness pass? Any patrol was better than none at all.

And that was true, until he heard screaming coming from a bodega and went to investigate. Later, Peter would tell himself he should have been smarter. It was getting dark, and the shouts were coming from inside a well-lit store. If he’d been at full capacity, he would’ve anticipated the gun. But it wasn’t later, and he didn’t anticipate anything. In fact, all he had to do was walk in and he felt a tearing pain in his thigh and wondered dully if it was connected to the loud noise he’d just heard.

By the time he realized he’d been shot it had already happened again. This time was in the stomach, and it was, if that was possible, more painful. There was another scream from one of the civilians, who was on the ground. Peter stumbled backwards, feeling his back hit a shelf, toppling both the groceries and Peter himself onto the ground.

“Ow,” he said softly. It woke up Karen, because of course it did. Only Tony would code an AI to respond to common American English sounds of distress.

Karen did her vocal biometric scans and didn’t like what she saw. Peter didn’t blame her. He didn’t like it, either. “Peter, it seems you are in extreme physical duress,” she said, still robot-cheerful.

Peter didn’t answer. The robber was coming at him with the gun still up and he was putting all his energy into scooting back, looking for something to brace himself on so he could- and there it was, the refrigerator case, and Peter was flying through the air and slamming his good foot into the guy’s temple. There was no room to be subtle, not when Peter could already see the edges of his vision beginning to darken.

“Should I call someone?” Karen asked as Peter crumpled again.

“Yes,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “Call anyone, Karen, please,” and then he heard the sirens coming his direction and started pulling himself hand over hand, trying to get away.

He remembered dragging himself out the back door and slumping against a dumpster, and Karen saying, “I have sent an alert to the nearest Avenger,” and then nothing else.

* * *

He woke up on a futon. He didn’t know it was a futon until he tried to sit up and there were hands on his shoulders pushing him back down and someone said “he should be in a hospital, not on our futon.”

“We can’t take him to a regular hospital and Stark won’t get here fast enough, so the futon is gonna have to do.”

Peter knew that voice but he couldn’t put a finger on why, not with the pain radiating from his thigh and oh God, someone had their hands in his stomach, that’s what that feeling was. He decided this was worth expressing, and managed to get out between gritted teeth: “oh God who has their hands in my stomach.”

“It’s okay, kid,” said the voice connected to the hands that were pushing Peter down. But that didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it made him think of Tony, and how furious he was going to be. Or how furious he already was? Someone had said his name, did that mean someone called him? Had anyone called Tony?

“Have you-?” Peter started to say, but it was a mistake because he was retching, heaving, and the hands in his stomach kept rummaging around and someone was yelling, yelling “put him to sleep goddammit, knock him out” and he couldn’t breathe for the pain or the bile or the—

* * *

The next thing that woke him up was yelling in the next room. He wasn’t on a futon anymore, that much he could tell from the steady beeps and the IV in his arm. No, this was the familiar Stark Tower medbay. If it wasn’t for the yelling match next door, Peter would’ve assumed the whole hands in the stomach thing was a dream.

He moved to get up and see what was going on and he almost blacked out again from the pain. “Okay,” he said to himself once the room stopped spinning, “no getting up.”

His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, which was interesting, but not unbearable. For some reason the light was too bright, though, and that was definitely worse than the drymouth. Every time it moved the pain intensified to a peak that was like fire, like electricity. And, save for the voices in the hallway, he was alone.

Even having a panic attack hurt, he realized. Too much breathing in and out, and the rigidity of his muscles wasn’t helping either. The machines started beeping in a bad way. The voices stopped and the door burst open and there was Tony, rushing in. Running his hands over Peter’s face and arms.

“Hey Pete,” Tony said, and he wasn’t angry like Peter had thought he’d be. “You okay? You really scared me.”

Peter, trying for words and missing them, shook his head. Tony pressed a button and the machines stopped beeping. It took a minute, but Tony sat there with his hands firmly grounding Peter, keeping him in reality. “I’m sorry,” he managed finally, and Tony let out a relieved laugh.

“You’re always sorry, it doesn’t stop you from running off and doing it again the minute you can stand up.”

Peter turned to look at him, to check whether the smile in his voice was real, but he caught a glimpse of a shadow lingering in the doorway that stopped him. He squinted, and then once he recognized him, wished he’d waited until he’d fully calmed down to see Steve fucking Rogers watching him from the hallway.

He turned to Tony. “Did Captain America have his hands in my stomach?”

Tony’s face turned hard. “No, Captain America doesn’t have any medical training. The Winter Soldier was the one who patched you up.”

“I didn’t know Captain America had a boyfriend,” Peter said, with an air of pleasant surprise.

“Boyfriend?” Tony spluttered. “No, that’s—“

“Mr. Stark, you don’t co-own a futon unless you’re dating.” The Captain America-shaped shadow in the doorway chuckled. “Why isn’t he crowding my sickbed like you are?”

And then there was no more spluttering from Tony. It was nearly instant, the protectiveness and barely concealed anger that changed his features. “Because he shouldn’t even be here in the first place. I don’t know how he found you when you should’ve called me—“

Peter was too tired to be tactful about anything, let alone the unexplained rift between Tony and Steve. “You’re the one who programmed my AI,” he said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“What do you mean ‘ask her?’”

“I told her to call someone who could help me. Guess she called him.” Tony, seemingly, didn’t have anything to say in response, so Peter let his head fall back against the pillows. The pain seemed to reassert itself once he wasn’t actively talking. He tried not to but he couldn’t help grimacing, and he couldn’t keep Tony from noticing it. That put an end to everything: the conversation, the potential scolding, the awareness that Captain America was in the same state, let alone the same room. Everything but Tony fussing over him.

And it really did hurt, so Peter let go of all of it for a second, let himself lean into Tony’s hand on his forehead and the drip of extra-strong painkillers that came at the push of a button. The next time he looked up, Steve was gone.

* * *

Peter didn’t think he would see Steve again, not after he got back into his suit and found out that Tony had gone into the database and removed Steve’s distinction as “Avenger.” Peter only had access to the private phone numbers of that group (even then only in emergencies), and since he was willing to bet that Steve had hidden himself as well as anyone could, he figured there was no chance for the two of them to get back in touch.

Until, of course, he vaulted onto a rooftop after dealing with a routine robbery to find Captain America—no, not Captain, he was wearing jeans and an old Dodgers T-shirt, nothing star-spangled about it—leaning against the access door with his hands deep in his pockets. His breath steamed in the air in front of him, but of course his jacked-up DNA didn’t let him feel the cold. Asshole.

“Hey, Queens,” he said, pushing up off the wall to approach Peter. “Didn’t expect to see you out and about so soon.”

Despite Steve’s casual attire, Peter stubbornly kept his mask on. Just because the guy saw his face when he was on the brink of death didn’t mean he had a right to Peter’s identity. “Crime doesn’t take a break just because I do.”

Steve laughed, ducking his head. “It won’t take a break if you end up dead, either.”

Peter stopped short. “Who says I’m gonna end up dead?”

“You stained my futon.”

“Well I’m sorry about that.” The conversation stopped, something unsaid hanging in the air. Peter lowered himself onto the lip of the roof, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You could’ve just patched me up on the floor.” 

Steve shook his head. “It’s not about the futon.”

A siren cut through the night air, high and wailing, and Peter and Steve turned on instinct. But it was an ambulance, which meant they could relax. Help was already on the way, and the conversation resumed:

“Then what is it about?” Peter asked, cautious.

“You’re a kid. You look _fourteen_ , and you’re getting shot trying to save the register of a convenience store?” Peter started to protest, but Steve cut him off. “You need someone looking out for you.”

“I’ve got someone looking out for me.”

“Someone who doesn’t have the power to take away your tech when you do something stupid.” Steve’s voice was soft but frim, and the more Peter thought about it the more it made sense.

He took off his mask and let it hang by his side, the other hand running through his hair, getting it out of his eyes. “And you think you can be that for me.”

Steve smiled, sheepish. “I got in plenty of fights I couldn’t win before I used a serum to cheat the system. I know what it’s like to need a buddy looking out for you. Mine set a pretty good example.”

It _did_ make sense. And as much as the little voice in his head was telling him how hurt Tony would be if he found out, it was easy to rationalize. Peter could ask for help without feeling like he was letting Tony down. And then, maybe, he could stop freaking him out by showing up full of bullet holes.

“So how do we do this?”

Steve looked pleasantly surprised, like he’d expected a lot more arguing. “You could just call me.”

Peter shifted, awkward. “Mr. Stark, uh… blocked your number.”

“Okay,” Steve said after a long moment. He tapped the inside of his left wrist where a thick watchband rested, and a panel popped open, the blue light of a screen visible from inside. “How much control do you have over your suit’s AI?”

Peter craned his neck to get a better look at the tech. “Plenty, until Tony takes it for an upgrade and sees any modifications I made to the code.” He watched the expression on Steve’s face sour. “Look, he’s not doing anything bad, he’s just protective. I messed with the suit’s restrictions when I was first starting out and I made a huge mess—“

“I seem to remember you saving his ass by taking down a plane, too,” Steve said. It took Peter a minute to process the fact that _Captain America_ knew about his takedown of the Vulture. Once it sunk in, he forced himself back on the problem at hand.

“Look,” he said, “I have a burner—“

“Why do you have a burner?”

Peter flushed. “There’s this girl I like. She knows Tony’s kind of a mentor and, uh… even though I told her he’d never listen in, she doesn’t like talking to me on my Stark Phone.”

Steve, to his credit, just nodded. “Sounds good. Give me the number. You call, I come, no questions asked.”

Peter rattled off the number and pulled his mask back on, stepping up the edge of the roof. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr… Sir,” he said, and to his horror he actually saluted as he dropped off into the open air.

“Don’t need me too soon!” Steve called after him, adding under his breath, “I don’t want to have to replace another futon.”

But the kid was already gone, swinging through the city on those crazy webs. Steve turned, shot a quick text to Bucky ( _home soon, order pizza?_ ) and headed down the stairs to the ground.

* * *

The first time Peter called Steve for help, Bucky picked up the phone. It had been over a month since their conversation of the rooftop and Steve had started to think that was the end of it, that the kid had just been humoring him, when Bucky’s voice floated over the jazz record Steve played whenever he was cooking: “who’s Queens?”

Steve managed to stay calm long enough to walk into the living room rather than run. “The phone,” he said, feeling slightly breathless. “Throw me the phone.”

Bucky tossed it over with a questioning look, his book abandoned on the seat beside him. “Maybe I’ll change my contact name, get you to pick up faster,” he muttered, but Steve was ignoring him.

Forcing his voice causal, he picked up the call: “Hello?”

The first thing he heard on the other end was a rush of wind, and then Peter’s voice. “Hi, sorry, hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I kind of—“ his voice cut off and there were several thuds Steve could recognize all too well. “Geez, ow. Okay, sorry, I’m back. Don’t worry, everything is handled, I just think I’m gonna need some help when this is over.”

“Of course,” Steve said. “Where are you?”

“Uh… Peter started. “Meet me on the roof of the Starbucks at the corner of 37th and 79th? And tell your boyfriend to bring his sewing kit.”

There was another thud of a punch and then the line went dead. Steve lowered the phone and Bucky raised his eyebrows, questioning in a teasing way. Steve fought down his panic. Bucky wasn’t worried, and neither was the kid. He shouldn’t be worried. He couldn’t be worried.

“It was the kid. Where’s the first aid kit?”

Bucky tensed in his chair. “Do I need to—“ he started, and Steve could see apprehension start to gather in his eyes. For Spiderman, and for himself. Bucky didn’t want to fight again, and Steve knew it.

“No, I can patch him up. Where’s the kit?”

It didn’t take Steve long to get to the kid. He was sitting on the roof, his legs splayed flat in front of him, mask off and a wad of bloody toilet paper shoved up his nose. Steve didn’t bother to ask why his first aid kit contained toilet paper, he just set the bag of sewing gear down and crouched next to him.

“Aye aye, Captain,” he said, and Steve was relieved to hear he sounded tired, yes, but not strained. “You bring the stuff?”

“Yes, I did.” Steve reached down and pulled the thread out of his bag.

“Okay, great. I’d get it myself, but…” he shifted his weight sideways so Steve could see the massive tear in his suit and the slow, steady gush of blood from a long cut.

Steve went about his job methodically, the pile of discarded gauze and alcohol wipes beside him growing by the moment. He stayed silent and let the kid chatter, charting the catches in his voice as the needle went in and out to know when he needed a break, when he could move faster.

“They threw me into a chain-link fence. Isn’t that such a stupid way to get hurt? And my healing factor works for tetanus, probably, but imagine if it didn’t! I’d have to go to the minute clinic after class tomorrow and get a shot, and how would I explain that? Hi, yes, I was busting a guy trying to steal a car. I’m a trained vigilante and he’s a petty criminal but somehow got the upper hand and gave me _tetanus_ —“

“Kid?” Steve interrupted, tying a knot in the thread.

“What?”

“I’m done.”

His body visibly slumped as he relaxed, letting out a breath. “Thank God, that fucking hurt.”

“Worse than getting impaled on a fence by a petty criminal?” Steve said, because he couldn’t help himself.

Spiderman already had his mask back on, but Steve could hear the grin in his voice: “Don’t tell anyone about that or I’ll have to kill you. And my name’s Peter, so. You can stop calling me kid, if you want.”

Steve barely had time to agree before Peter shot a web and threw himself off the roof, leaving him to clean up the trash and take the stairs back down to the street. The cabbie was quiet on the drive home, and Steve tried to be just as quiet going back into his apartment but it was pointless—Bucky was waiting up for him on the futon.

“The kid?” he asked. “How many of my supplies do I need to replace?”

Steve hung his jacket up on a hook by the door. “Nothing serious. Just a few stitches on his back where he couldn’t reach by himself.”

Bucky stood up to take the first aid back from Steve. He stifled a yawn. “He can’t get stitches from Stark?”

“I’m not gonna ask. The goal isn’t to scare him away, and at least now we know he’s getting stitches from somebody. Somebody trained, at least.”

Bucky held up a $20 bill he’d found tucked in the bag between gauze pads. “What the hell is this?”

“He must’ve wanted to give me cab fare without letting me refuse it,” Steve said, trying not to smile.

There was something in Bucky’s eyes that softened as he contemplated the money. Steve knew then and there that he was just as in it with Queens as Steve was himself. He’d always had a weakness for scrappy kids, always been willing to put himself in between them and danger.

And there was something about this kid. Steve couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but that was because Bucky was still holding it up on the other side of the room.

* * *

The three of them settled into a strange routine. Peter called Steve a few times a month and either he or Bucky would meet him with the first aid kit on some rooftop, listening to his incessant chatter as they splinted bones or sewed up cuts.

The calls got more frequent the more Peter realized they really weren’t going to yell at him for being stupid or careless. Soon Bucky and Steve were meeting him for minor scrapes and bruises, talking about the girl he liked or the movie he’d just seen and thought they’d enjoy. Somewhere in the middle of all of it Bucky and Steve got a dog, a pit bull they’d seen on a streetcorner with one of those “please adopt me!” vests on that Bucky couldn’t leave alone. Her name was Hildegard, for whatever reason, and neither of them felt the need to change it. They did shorten it to Hildy so Bucky didn’t have to feel like a 20th century nanny every time he yelled for her in the park, though.

Whether it was genuine human connection or the picture Steve had shown of Hildy the last time they talked, Peter suggested they have dinner at Steve and Bucky’s apartment. “You know,” he’d said nervously, “so I can atone for your bloodstained futon.”

Hildy was beside herself when Peter walked in, half because she loved new people and half because she could smell the burgers Steve was cooking in the kitchen. “C’mon in, kid,” Bucky said, hand firmly in Hildy’s collar. “She’s friendly, if a little overexcited.”

Peter just sat down in the doorway and opened his arms, letting Hildy wiggle her whole body into his lap and lick every square inch of his face. “It’s kind of cliché of you to have a pit bull who’s a giant softie,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand once Hildy settled down a bit. “You realize that, right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and whistled for Hildy to go lie in her bed. It took a few tries, but she eventually did it. “Shoes by the door, and I can take your coat.”

Peter did as he was told before walking around the apartment, taking everything in. “It’s nicer than I remember it being.”

“Well the last time you were here I was putting your small intestine back together.” Bucky put Peter’s coat in the closet and turned to the kitchen. “Steve! The kid’s here!”

“Five minutes until food!” Steve called back.

“Good, I’m starving. I missed lunch period cause the robotics team asked for my help before their competition this weekend, and they totally messed up the code for the grab sequence. It was a nightmare.”

Bucky sat down on the couch, fighting down a grin. “I’m sure it was.”

“It would’ve been fine except last night I got in a jam and spent two hours hiding from the cops in an SUV in Hell’s Kitchen, so I got a lot less sleep than I usually do.” Now he was running his fingers along the spines of all the books on the shelf, pausing every few titles to look closer. “How much do you think the Post would pay for a list of Captain America’s favorite books?”

“If I knew, do you think I’d be living in this shithole?” Bucky folded his arms across his chest. “Those aren’t his favorites anyway. They were a housewarming gift.”

Peter pulled an old copy of _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ off the shelf and started to page through it. “I’m glad you know at least one person with a sense of humor.”

“I don’t think anyone would disagree with you about Stark’s sense of humor.”

Peter put the book back, and Bucky couldn’t tell what was wrong about his movements until he realized it was because they were slower than usual, almost cautious.

“What is it about him that makes you…” Bucky held his hands in front of him, familiar enough with Peter’s powers to know he’d feel the gesture.

“He was the first person who believed in me, you know, as Spiderman. And then, when he didn’t…” Peter relaxed his shoulders and turned to face Bucky. “He’s done a lot for me. Not just Spiderman, me. And knowing what it’s like to disappoint him, well. I don’t want to do it again.”

“And that’s where Steve comes in.”

Something slammed shut in Peter’s face, the mask of humor coming forward to cover everything else. “Hey, don’t forget about Hildy. She’s a very important cog in this machine.”

They looked at each other for a second. Bucky thought the expression he was making was obvious but Peter didn’t say anything, just stared back, his face unreadable. And when Steve called out “food’s ready!” from the kitchen the kid ran off like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

Fine. It was fine if he didn’t want to admit how unhealthily protective Stark was of him, how scared he was of letting Stark down. As unguarded as Peter was with them, he never talked about how he was feeling, or anything about _him_ , really. The rambled about his day and constant quips were disarming, but he never really talked about how any of it was affecting him. Nothing that could be used against him.

Steve had made homemade fries to go with the burgers, and salad the way Bucky liked it, with dried cranberries and goat cheese and strawberry vinaigrette. No yellow peppers, because the ones at the supermarket hadn’t been good, but Peter loaded up his plate and pronounced it delicious anyway.

“I was telling Bucky how I had to fix the code for the robotics team at school,” he said, mouth still full. “And I was thinking… I noticed you favor your—well, your real arm, Bucky, and I know you’re not a high school robotics project but if there’s something going on, I thought I could fix it?”

And there it was. That was how the kid revealed himself, injured on rooftops or sitting in their apartment. Soviet arm maintenance. Twenty dollars for a cab ride home. Offerings, and an earnest expression that made it impossible for Bucky or Steve to misinterpret: he liked them. He _trusted_ them. And he wanted to help.

Hildy’s tail thumped against the rug under the table.

“If I have any problems, I’ll come to you,” Bucky said.

Steve cleared his throat. “He’s bent one too many forks to use that arm for mundane tasks,” he said, and the kid laughed a little, and that was that. He was a part of their circle.

Bucky tried not to think about Stark and Peter, he really did. One dinner became two, then three, and then Thursday nights belonged to Peter and telling him to stop giving Hildy half the food on his plate. Bucky taught him how to stitch cuts on his back and Steve taught him how to kick someone twice mid-backflip. But there was always a part of him that was wondering what Peter was giving up for them. If there was any lying, any sneaking around, anything that put their old grudges on this brilliant kid with too much on his plate already.

So, yeah. Bucky didn’t understand how Stark could ever be disappointed in Peter, but he sure as hell got why he was protective over him.

* * *

MJ agreed to go with Peter to Stark Industries after a week of begging and the promise of a free sandwich at Delmar’s. As much as she pretended to be above it all, her leg was bouncing on the subway harder and harder as they got closer to the stop.

Peter grinned at her. “If you’re using me as a tool to enact your anti-capitalist evil plan, just know I have another internship at a multi-million dollar company locked up, so. Don’t hold back.”

MJ fixed him with a glare. “First off, don’t call an anti-capitalist plan evil, that’s an oxymoron. And second, I’m not nervous.”

“I never said you were.”

The subway car jerked and MJ gripped the pole to keep from stumbling. “You can’t trick me, Parker. I denied it because you were implying I’m nervous, which I am _not_.”

“Okay, _Jones_ ,” Peter said, nudging MJ’s foot with his. “Tell that to your leg.”

MJ glared again, but she was also smiling, just a little. “What are you working on again?”

Peter loved when she asked that, never got tired of it. Because she was the smartest person he knew—not the way he was, not with numbers and moving parts and molecules, but with seeing things like nobody else could. Creative solutions. MJ was better at helping him through snags in his work than anyone else, and she actually cared. She listened even if she didn’t know what he was talking about, managed to offer him advice and call him stupid because he was going about things exactly the wrong way.

He had no shortage of mentors, lately, but it was nice to have someone like MJ. Equal. And pretty. So pretty it made his stomach do those twisty sort of flips. Much prettier than Tony or Steve or even Bucky, that was for sure.

“This is our stop,” Peter said, because it was, and if he reached out for her hand to make sure they didn’t get separated in the station, well that’s all it was.

Tony greeted them right out of the elevator. Peter tried not to act surprised; he’d mentioned MJ was coming but Tony hadn’t reacted any particular way to the news. He never met Ned at the elevator, not even the first time. Although Ned probably would have pissed his pants, so maybe that was a good thing.

MJ was fine, though, shaking hands and talking about the working conditions in his factories. Classic MJ stuff. Peter couldn’t keep himself from smiling, not that he was trying very hard.

“Can I show you what I’m working on?” Peter asked once Tony started to look harried.

MJ rolled her eyes. “As long as you don’t get any motor oil on me.”

“I’ll do my best,” Peter said, and he led MJ down the hall to the lab, let her sit in his swivel chair and dig through his files. She loved FRIDAY, which made sense, and she hated his chair, which didn’t. It was ergonomic and definitely expensive, and MJ was playing with the controls like she wanted to take it apart.

Eventually she settled in, leaning back and propping her feet on the desk. “I wanted you to be doing meaningless work so badly.”

“Really?”

MJ swatted his arm. “Nah, not really. Your brain is too big for that. I just had this whole joke lined up about how you were a brainwashed cog in a meaningless machine.”

“Making fun of me is, like, all you do anyways. You don’t need a reason.”

“Yeah, but it takes a lot more effort when I don’t have one.”

Peter shoved the chair with his foot, sending MJ spinning away into the rest of his meager office space. “Aw, you think I’m worth effort?”

And then she blushed and tried to hide it and Peter felt a glow spread from his ears and down his neck, too. This visit was going better than he ever could have hoped, even as he started moving through the tasks Tony had left for him and MJ fiddled around with his computer. That was one of his favorite things about hanging out with MJ, the fact that they could be in comfortable silence together and he didn’t feel the need to say anything funny. Smart, maybe, but today he seemed to be nailing both funny and smart, and she looked pretty impressed with what she was finding on the desktop.

And then, right on schedule, it all came crashing down.

“Peter, what’s this?” MJ pointed to a file on the computer labelled “P. Parker Mutation.” Peter put down the wrist thruster Tony had given him to stabilize and convert to nanotech for the Mark LXX. MJ liked to go anywhere she wasn’t supposed to go, but Peter had thought it wouldn’t matter. There wouldn’t be anything in the servers she shouldn’t see, or at least nothing he didn’t already know about.

Apparently he was wrong.

Neither of them knew much about genetics, but Peter knew enough to know the data was extensive, and that he hadn’t known any of it was being collected. And MJ knew the word mutation, obviously, which made it hard enough for Peter to react like he wanted to. No raging, yelling, not even shock, not when MJ needed to be convinced “mutation” meant “regular” and “fine” and “totally not Spiderman.”

“My mom had heterochromia,” he said, desperately. MJ raised an eyebrow. “It’s side research, just so see how it passes on. If it’s tied to a chromosome, if it’s linked to any other traits.”

“Okay,” MJ said, but it was obvious she didn’t believe him, even more obvious when Peter asked her if they could do a rain check on Delmar’s.

“I’m good for it,” he said, “I promise. I just have to talk to Mr. Stark for a little bit, and I don’t want you to have to wait around.”

MJ was gathering her stuff when she replied: “You know I’d wait, if you asked, but it’s fine. Go get this figured out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Peter repeated, watching her walk out the door. It all lifted, just for a second, and then it was back and Peter was reeling. He sat down and looked over the file, tried to rationalize it all. Heart rate, oxygen levels, blood work. A map of his entire genome he’d never seen, with the spider shit winding its way down the whole double helix. And Tony had never said anything about it.

He was sitting in his office when Peter knocked, his feet propped up on his desk just like MJ’s had been not a half hour ago. He was on the phone with someone, and he waved Peter in with one hand, help up a finger. Peter could hear his voice in his head without trying: “just a minute, Underoos, important call.”

“So,” Tony said once he hung up. “You booted the girl? Don’t tell me she’s waiting for you in the lab, she doesn’t seem like the waiting type.”

“She’s not,” said Peter, and then because he couldn’t resist, “I guess you think I am, seeing as you’ve had me waiting to hear about the mapping you’ve done of my ‘mutation.’”

Tony’s eyes widened and his feet slipped off his desk. “How did you—?”

“MJ found it. And she doesn’t like you, so it took her under an hour of idle snooping.” Peter felt his hands clench at his sides. He still hadn’t moved from the doorway, hadn’t sat down or put his backpack by his feet. “And she’s obviously not dumb, so I’m pretty sure you’re gonna have to add another name to the list of people who know who Spiderman is. If not now, then soon.”

“Look, Pete—“

“You didn’t think that was something you should tell me? That you’re using my time in the suit for some kind of bullshit study, that you’re keeping a file about my genome and my- my- you called it a _mutation_!” Peter could feel his voice shaking despite all he was doing to try and rein it in.

Tony stood up now, too, held his hands out in front of him. “I was trying to protect you! We don’t know what the changes to your DNA might do to you in the future, if it could get dangerous. What if your healing factor gives up, huh? What then? You’d die doing something stupid, and I wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

Peter shook his head, already backing out of the room. It was hard to move as fast as he wanted and still look collected, to keep on the mature face he was trying to show to Tony. Especially when Tony was walking towards him, reaching out, and Peter didn’t want to give him anything.

“If you don’t trust me enough not to be stupid,” he said, “then I shouldn’t be here.” Then then he turned and left, leaving Tony looking confused and hurt behind him.

Peter called Steve from the street, fully running now, his feet pounding on the pavement.

“Queens?” Steve answered, his voice already concerned. “What’s wrong? You’re not usually patrolling right—“

“Where are you?” Peter’s breath was coming in ragged pants as he picked up speed, dodging the sea of people walking around him. It hit him suddenly, how slow they all were compared to him. How it was in his DNA, that difference, right down to his very core.

Steve could hear it in Peter’s voice, at least some of it. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Where _are_ you right now? Can I come over?”

“I’m walking Hildy, but I can be home in ten minutes. But Peter, you gotta tell me what’s going on, I don’t—“

Peter hung up the phone and practically threw himself into the next alley he came across, ducking behind a dumpster to pull on his suit.

Swinging usually made him feel better, calmer once all the energy was wrung out of him, but when he dropped onto Steve’s fire escape he was just as panicked as he’d been in Tony’s office. Steve had opened the window and he was waiting on the couch with two sodas sitting on coasters in front of him. Peter grabbed the glass gratefully, feeling its coolness on his fingers, but instead of sitting he paced the length of the living room. Up and down, there are back, three times before anyone said anything, even a hello.

“What’s going on with you?” Steve asked finally, his voice measured.

“Is Bucky here?”

Steve only looked confused for a second before he answered in the same even tone: “No, he’s out. Do you need him?”

Peter’s steps faltered, and he finally turned to look at Steve. “He doesn’t like Tony, so I wouldn’t- I don’t really want to say this in front of him.”

“So it’s about Tony,” Steve said. No question, all statement. It always seemed to come back to Tony, with Peter.

“Are you different from other people?” Peter burst out. “Not, like- your DNA. Did the serum alter it permanently?”

“Yes, it did.”

“And did they- I mean, the people who gave it to you, did they run tests? Figure out what it really meant to be… you know. Different?”

A sort of realization dawned on Steve’s face and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Closer to Peter without getting up, without spooking him. “For a little while. They never really cracked me, though. The doctor who engineered the serum was killed.”

“But you’re not—“

“Peter. What happened?”

It was sometimes hard for Steve to remember Peter was fifteen, and other times it was hard to remember he probably had the most raw power of any other person in the city. And now Steve was confronted with both of those identities at the same time, looking at him, trying to stare _into_ him for answers.

“There was a file on me at Stark Industries. All this medical information I didn’t know he had, and then at the bottom a file for a fucking 3-D render of my DNA like I’m a science project he’s studying on the weekends.” Peter set down his soda, the drink virtually untouched.

Steve pushed down the anger he felt bubbling in his stomach. “You didn’t consent to him gathering data?”

“I didn’t know he wanted data in the first place!” Peter said, getting more and more agitated the longer he spoke. “And it’s not like I don’t think about it, it’s my life. My fucking cells that could mess me up forever if something’s wrong, and he doesn’t get it. He puts on a metal suit and at the end of the day he climbs out _human_ , no file about ‘T. Stark Mutation’ on company servers, and then he tried to defend himself! Like I should just shut up and stop being mad so he can protect me or whatever he else he decided is more important than me.”

With that his shoulders sagged, like all the words had been carrying him here and now that they were out he was flattening, untethering. “It was a spider, right?”

Peter sighed. “Yeah.”

“And you’ve never…” Steve started, unsure of how to put it all into words.

“I can’t exactly go to a doctor and say, ‘hello, Doc, I got bitten by a freaky spider and some strange things are happening to my body. Please disregard any similarities you might find between me and a certain spandexed vigilante.’ So no, I haven’t had anyone check me out.”

Steve gave the words a second to hand in the air before he spoke. “I’m sorry that happened.”

“What Tony did, or the bite?”

“Both.”

“He expects me to trust him all the time, no matter what. And I get nothing back. It’s always ‘you shouldn’t put yourself in danger like that, kid,” and ‘what the hell were you thinking,’ and ‘you’re supposed to be _better_.’ Turns out the bar is pretty fucking low.”

Steve stood up, blocking Peter’s path. He reached out and put a hand on the kid’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “I’ve been steamrolled by Tony Stark plenty of times,” he said. “I’m not proud of the way I got him to stop in Siberia. But honestly? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to earn his trust back again.”

Peter snorted. “Easy for you to say—“

“Do you remember the Battle of New York?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, startled. “Aliens destroyed half the city, the Hulk destroyed the other half kicking their ass.”

Steve made a mental note to tell that to Banner the next time they talked. Even in emotional distress, the kid was funnier than he had any business being.

“Tony went through a wormhole thinking he wasn’t going to come back out. Him and a nuke, floating in space, no special DNA or healing or extra strength. And he was different when he woke up on the ground. Paranoid.” He squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “Overprotective.”

“Why are you telling me all that?” Peter asked. Steve could hear in his voice that Peter knew, but he explained anyway.

“It doesn’t excuse what you just found out. But it might explain it.”

“What good does that do?”

“I’m sure you hear this a lot, but you’re a special kid. I speak for me and for Bucky when I say it’s hard not to care about you. Tony’s not good at letting the people he loves protect themselves.” He let go of Peter and sat back down on the futon. This time, Peter walked over and sat down beside him.

Peter was quiet for a moment, contemplative, and then he held his hands out in front of him as if surprised to find them empty. “Where’s Hildy?”

A whine came from behind the bedroom door at the sound of her name. “You sounded like you needed to have a serious conversation, so I shut her in the bedroom.”

“Yeah, well, now I need a dog. Please free her.”

They stayed like that on the futon until Bucky got home, Peter lying with Hildy across his chest, his feet pressed up against Steve as he read the biography he’d been working on. Every time Peter dozed off scratching Hildy’s ears she would lick his chin and wake him up for more.

His phone rang every now and then but he ignored it and Steve thought it was easier not to press him.

Bucky snorted when he walked through the door, arms full of groceries. That was the benefit of having a boyfriend with enhanced strength—Steve never had to help bring in the groceries.

“If you’re gonna crash here you might as well help me put this stuff away,” Bucky told Peter, who hopped up and immediately grabbed the bag out of Bucky’s outstretched hand.

“Can I stay for dinner?” he asked, and Bucky snorted again.

“Of course. Find the ice cream, it’s gonna melt.”

Later that night, after the kid had left and they were in what Steve liked to call “The Domestic Position” (propped up on pillows, reading, each with one hand comfortably on the other’s stomach), Bucky brought it all up: “so what was going on with the kid?”

“Something happened with Stark.”

Bucky noticed the careful tone in Steve’s voice and set his book down against his chest, the pages flat to keep his place. “You wanna tell me what?”

“No?” Steve said, and then he closed his book and set it down as well. “I mean, yes, but…”

“It’s Peter’s private information.”

“And your grudge against Stark.”

Bucky’s reaction was predictable, and slightly overdramatic. “I do not have a grudge against Stark!”

Steve did his best to make sure that when he patted Bucky’s knee, it wasn’t condescending. “You do. It’s not subtle. Especially not when we’re talking about Peter.”

“There’s something off about how he treats him.”

“Like being so worried Peter will start fights he can’t finish that he keeps constant tabs on him?” Steve grinned, tightened his grip on Bucky’s knee. “Sweetheart, you invented that move.”

“Don’t quote A Cinderella Story at me.”

“What, Peter was right! We did like it.”

Bucky curled into Steve, pressing his face into Steve’s shirt just below his collarbone. Steve could feel the spine of Bucky’s trashy paperback pressing into his stomach. “He talks about him like he’s terrified. You were never scared of me like that.”

“Scared how?”

“The first time Peter disappointed him, Stark took away his suit. I haven’t gotten the story out of him yet, but somehow he ended up on the beach at Coney Island with four broken ribs and the wreckage of Stark’s personal plane. No tech, no parachute, nothing.” Bucky’s breath fanned hot against Steve’s chest. “How do you build trust out of that?”

Steve reached between them and gently pried the books out, pausing to put them on his bedside table. “He loved the kid. I saw it, in the med bay that first night. He’s just as scared as Peter is.”

“Well then he needs to learn to love him better. Or open up a line of communication, instead of punching first and asking questions later.”

Although they were both still wide awake, something in Bucky’s voice told Steve he was done talking. He pressed his lips against Steve’s chest, less a kiss and more of a reminder—love, always—and then rolled away, back to his side of the bed.

Steve watched him turn his light off, settled into the pillows like he was going to sleep. Rest was a luxury, for both of them but more so for Bucky, who didn’t wake up to a 21st century that adored him. Who up until several months ago was still running from the governments of several countries and half the Avengers. It was nice, to see him sleep. And it was getting easier, every night, to forget that it was Tony’s heart Steve had to break to get them here.

* * *

Peter was eating lo mien on Bucky and Steve’s futon when a knock sounded on their door. “Did you hear the buzzer?” Steve asked, and Bucky shook his head. Noodles waggled out of his mouth and Peter stifled a laugh. “Stay here.”

“What, like we’re going to leave the food?” Peter called out, but Steve didn’t respond. He heard the door open, and a muffled exclamation from Steve, and then someone came stomping into sight before Peter had time to hide.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” said Natasha Romanoff, and Peter almost let the food in his mouth fall out and onto the table.

Steve came rushing in right on her heels. “I tried to tell you, we’ve got—“

“This is Peter. He’s a family friend.” Bucky shifted closer to Peter on the futon, and he could feel how tense Bucky was—Peter’s own posture mirrored it.

Romanoff rolled her eyes. “Please. You think I let another Spider run around New York without me figuring out who it is? Peter Parker, fifteen years old, sophomore at Midtown Science, wastes time on an Academic Decathlon team. I just didn’t know he was spending time in your living room.”

“We’re looking out for him,” Bucky said, voice low.

“I think Stark already called dibs on that job,” Romanoff replied. She didn’t sound angry, Peter noted, just amused, and a little wary. He’d never followed superhero politics all that closely, but even he knew the Black Widow was supposed to be independent and hard to predict. What reason could she have for telling all this to Tony? Alternatively, what reason could she have for not?

“I’m right here,” Peter said, gripping the edge of the futon for any measure of support. “And I’m not sure I recognize dibs when looking through job applicants.”

“Your file at school didn’t mention you were funny.” Romanoff finally turned to address Peter. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Have you ever been to public school? ‘Peter is a disruption in class’ means Peter is hilarious and charming.”

Bucky clenched his jaw as Peter spoke, like he wasn’t sure whether to be nervous or amused.

“I’ll tell the Russians they need to update their grading system.”

Steve finally broke: “Nat, what are you doing here?”

She turned to him with this crooked smile Peter knew she’s practiced in the mirror before. “Trying to exploit your enormous muscles.”

“He has me for flattery. Get to the point,” said Bucky. Peter wanted to ask him if his voice got any lower, would it fall through the floor? But it didn’t seem like the time.

“I got a lead on something in Vienna, I think you’re gonna want in. You can’t bring the kid, but the husband’s a maybe.”

Steve scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Right now?”

“You’ve got a go-bag at headquarters, right?” Nat asked. Steve nodded. “Then yeah, right now. Clint’s waiting.”

It was like in a split second Steve’s whole demeanor changed. One second he was the Steve Peter knew, calm and self-assured, leery of coming out of the background and altogether too fond of cable-knit sweaters. The next he straightened up, seemed to fill the room to bursting with his presence. He was still Steve, sure, but something about him seemed harsher, more dangerous. Romanoff had turned him into Captain America.

Hildy, who had been quiet since Romanoff came in, slowly slinked towards Steve and the persona cracked, just a little. “You stay, Buck. Someone’s gotta watch the kid.”

Peter wanted to protest, but Bucky had gotten up off the futon and this seemed like the kind of interaction he shouldn’t interrupt. Peter caught a second of the kiss before he turned away, accidentally catching Romanoff’s eye. The kiss had been hard, private. The smirk Romanoff gave Peter was a commiseration: _aren’t they gross?_ Peter smiled hesitantly back.

Then they broke apart and Romanoff was all business again. “Watch after him, detenysh,” Bucky said, and Romanoff reached out and punched his non-metal shoulder.

“I’ve got plenty of practice. You look after that kid, it looks like he needs it. And don’t worry,” she said, turning to Peter now, “I won’t tell Stark about your second family.”

She winked and then they were gone, and it was just Peter sitting on the futon and Bucky standing by the door. “You should probably get home to your Aunt,” Bucky said after a long moment. He had a hand on Hildy, stroking her head absentmindedly.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Probably.”

Bucky didn’t look at Peter while he gathered his stuff. It wasn’t until he stood by the front door that Bucky looked away from Hildy and said, “don’t worry about it, okay? If Nat’s good at one thing, it’s secrets.”

“She’s also good at keeping Steve alive,” Peter said. Bucky responded with a small, tired smile. “We’re still good to train on Saturday?”

“’Course. Meet me there, though, because—“

“Hildy doesn’t like when I show up and then leave right away,” Peter said. “I know.”

Bucky crouched and buried his face in the top of Hildy’s head. Peter glanced at him one last time before he threw his bag over his shoulder and went home to a pile of math homework and a plate of burnt brownies Aunt May moved from the oven right into the trash.

* * *

Peter spent more time than usual with Bucky in the week Steve was gone, to the point where people were starting to notice. May tried to cook one night to guilt him into being home for dinner, Ned brought up buying a new Lego set to work on, even MK asked what was keeping him so busy at SI. But Tony was the worst, not only because things had been so awkward between them, but also because he wasn’t used to all the excuses. Usually, he was the reasons Peter was making them, not their recipient.

“You have _what_ with May?” he said after Peter asked to leave the lab early for the third day that week.

“Uh… Larb night. It’s a thing we do. Like, bonding.”

Tony squinted at him for a moment, then sighed. “Yeah, sure. As long as you talk me through what you’re doing with that first.”

Peter tried not to feel guilty as he walked Tony through the modifications he’d made to the fuel compartment. It wasn’t like Tony had dibs, he knew that. Romanoff had been joking. But it was feeling more and more like a secret the closer he got to Bucky and Steve, especially Bucky. He used to talk to Tony about patrolling. The cool stuff but also the stupid stuff: posing for pictures with neighborhood kids, chucking oranges at protesters outside the Planned Parenthood near his apartment. They hadn’t talked about that in a while, he realized as Tony pored over the schematics. Not since that night in the hospital when Tony sent Steve home and sat with him all night.

“This is fantastic, Peter,” Tony said without looking away from the schematics. “Really, I had no idea you’d do this well on this.”

“Hey, you sure you can’t reschedule Larb Night? I’ve got some other stuff I think we can mod with this and I want you to help.” Tony glanced at Peter, his face cautiously optimistic. “And then Pepper’s out, so we could have dinner? Watch a movie? I can’t cook, but I’m rich so I get good takeout.”

“Yeah, okay. Just let me call May and ask.”

Tony slapped Peter on the back, grinning broadly. “Of course. Meet me in my lab when you’re done, it’s all in there. And kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Really good work.”

“Thanks.”

Peter pulled out his burner once he was sure Tony was gone, and dialed Bucky’s number. He picked up on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“Can I take a raincheck on dinner?” Peter asked, trying not to think about Bucky sitting along in his apartment, watching something pathetic like Say Yes to The Dress. But hey, maybe he’d like it. His taste was elusive.

“Something came up?” Peter started scrambling for an excuse but Bucky cut him off.

“It’s not a problem. Hildy and I will just eat extra.”

“If you’re sure…”

“’Course I’m sure. I’ve been eating along for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Okay. And you’ll call me if –“ Peter started, but Bucky had heard this sentence before and he knew how it ended.

“I’ll call you the second they get back.”

“Thanks, Buck. Give Hildy a scratch for me, behind the ears where she –“

“I think I know where my own dog likes to be scratched.” Bucky’s voice was all impatience and dry humor.

“Uh, yeah. Right. Bye.”

Peter slipped the burner into his pocket and made his way up the two floors to Tony’s lab. His breath always caught when he saw it: a whole floor with all the walls knocked down, only support beams obstructing the view of Tony’s projects. It looked, at first glance, like debris was littering the floor haphazardly, but Peter could see the method to it. There were big problems at the center, those problems broken up into smaller pieces surrounding them so the room was a series of concentric circles, each one a cornerstone of Stark Research and Development. Tony was standing on the fringes of the Iron Man circle, holding a replica of the thruster Peter had been working on.

The floor made it so Peter’s footsteps echoed like a movie with horrible sound design. Tony looked up the second he walked in. “Your aunt okay with this?” he called.

Peter forced himself to remember that he wasn’t the only one lying in this relationship when he replied, “yeah, she’s fine.” She also _was_ fine. So fine, in fact, she thought he’d been having dinner with Tony this whole time.

“Great. Plenty of time for you to show me what you did, I want to see it again from the beginning.”

Peter took him through it again, and then they set to working on a larger application that spanned a whole functioning suit rather than just one part. This was the part that had made Peter come back even after the file MJ found, the part where Tony could understand everything that was happening in Peter’s brain faster than he got it himself. Whole hours of work felt like nothing and they worked together seamlessly to make tech that would have taken them four times longer on their own.

A look at the clock told Peter it was almost seven and he turned to Tony, pointed it out. “We should be hungry, right?”

The easy balance they had had while working faltered as Tony looked from Peter to the clock, trying to decide what to say. Tony settled on an apology, which Peter could tell right away from his tone of voice, and he really didn’t want to listen because he already knew he’d accept—Steve was wiser than most people gave him credit for. But it seemed like Tony had really thought about this one, maybe even practiced, so Peter let him speak. Not without finding something to do with his hands so it wasn’t unbearable, but he let him go on for a while uninterrupted.

“Look, Pete, I’m really sorry about what you found on the computer. I know it’s not right of me to be doing anything behind your back, let alone…” he took a deep breath. “I was scared, and curious, and usually when I feel like that it’s within my power to gather as much information as I can and fix the problem. But I should have talked to you. I should have asked.”

Tony paused and Peter stopped putting screwdrivers away to look at him. He seemed to be waiting for something so Peter turned and said, “It’s fine. I get it, I wanted to know about it too.”

“What?” Tony asked. “You’re not-?”

“No, I’m still mad. But I talked it out with someone and they helped me with perspective, so. I forgive you, I guess. Is what I’m trying to say.”

Tony was fighting hard to keep his face somber, befitting a heartfelt apology, but the grin peeked out from underneath anyway. “I knew I liked that aunt of yours. Let’s pick a movie.”

They ended up watching Die Hard so Tony could yell during all the good parts and Peter could throw popcorn during all the cheesy ones. The few moments where Tony reached out and ruffled Peter’s hair or rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder almost made it harder to think about the situation he’d gotten himself caught in.

Peter hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on Steve until he was gone, and now, with Tony… it was getting too hard for him to think about. The idea of telling Tony spun around and around in Peter’s head until he was nauseous at the prospect of coming clean and nauseous about the idea of staying quiet.

So on the way home, when he knew he couldn’t actually call her because he was serviceless like he always was on the subway, he pulled up MJ’s contact. He’d tried to talk to Ned but he was too caught up in asking questions about The Great Tony Stark. Ned thought being a superhero was glamorous, perfect. Peter didn’t want to ruin that.

He got off at his stop and took the stairs two at a time, his phone in front of him the whole time. Peter had wanted to tell MK for a while anyways, and after what had happened to them at Stark industries, he was pretty sure she was already suspicious. That heterochromia story had fooled exactly no one.

So he texted her. Low commitment, high intrigue, everything MJ liked in a conversation. Short and sweet. _I have something to tell you_. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of secret you told over the phone.

MJ texted back faster than she ever had before, the chime coming as he was heading up the street: _okay, spiderman. i can meet you wherever._

Peter felt his heart stutter in his chest. He hit the call button before he realized what he was doing, breathless with his feet still pounding against the pavement. MJ picked up after just one ring. “If I wasn’t sure before, this confirms it.”

“How did you-?” Peter asked, still unable to say the full phrase out loud.

“Calm down, I’m not gonna tell anyone. I’m just a careful observer who’s also had a pretty good look at your genes. Also, you’re a horrible liar.”

Peter couldn’t take any of this in. “You’re a what?”

MJ must have heard something in Peter’s voice, a catch in his breath or some tremor of panic, because she changed her tone completely. “Hey, calm down. I mean it this time. What did you need to talk about?”

“Can you get out right now?”

“Yeah, I think –“ MJ’s voice got quieter as she moved away from her phone, probably checking for her parents. “I can. The park?”

“The park,” said Peter, and he hung up. A mission always made it easier for him to keep it together, the clear objective crowding out doubt and panic.

His best bet was to go home and talk to May, tell her 90% of the truth. He practiced his speech on his way up the street and then up the three floors to his apartment. He faltered when he flung open the door to find her waiting on the couch, phone in hand.

“Hi, May.”

“I just got an interesting call from Michelle,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. Peter dropped his bag by the door and sat down. “She said you have an urgent school project to do at her apartment.”

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not entirely true,” he said, and May made her patented “no shit” noise. “Look, I really like her, and she asked if we could talk and I’d only be as far as the park –“

May stopped him with a hand on each cheek. “I thought it was something like that,” she said, and then she kissed his forehead noisily. “You’re so big now, you never want to be home.”

“It’s not like that –“

“I know it’s not. Hey, I love you, okay? Be home by 11:30.”

Peter sprung up from the couch, barely pausing to press a return kiss to May’s cheek. “I love you too!” he called as he bolted out the door and back down the stairs.

The park was three blocks away and kind of small, mostly playground equipment and falling-apart benches. Peter hopped to the top of the jungle gym to wait for MJ. It wasn’t long before she was walking up, headphones blasting music from around her neck.

“I’m not climbing up there,” she said, just like Peter knew she would. He jumped down next to her and she paused her music.

“I thought you were a risk-taker.”

MJ raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally a part-time vigilante.”

Peter could feel his throat tighten and he forced himself to remember that MJ would never tell anyone. She would never do that to him, no matter if she liked him back or not. “There are some very important people who are going to want to know how you figured out that information.”

MJ brushed her hair out of her face to try and disguise her blush, but Peter noticed it anyway. “The big tip-off was you going from asthma attacks to push-up records in gym, but you’re also not nearly as sneaky as you think you are.”

“I guess I was trying to coast on the fact that I’m a nerd and nobody likes me.”

“You may be a nerd,” said MJ, “but I wouldn’t be so sure about the second part. You and Ned seem to be doing just fine.”

Peter tried to keep his cool and did a pretty good job, all things considered. “Okay, all that aside, I wanted to tell you cause I’m kind of dealing with something I can’t talk about with anyone else. And when I feel like that, I usually talk to you.”

“Does it have something to do with the file I found at Stark’s?” MJ asked, hands deep in her pockets.

“Kind of. It definitely didn’t help.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, and then she started to walk out of the park. “This sounds complicated. Let’s grab snacks.”

Peter told her everything on the way to the bodega. Or, he started to. It was a long story. It took the walk there and back plus the time it took to demolish a party-size bag of cool ranch Doritos before he was done with everything.

All MJ said when he was done was, “so Captain America has a boyfriend and a dog. I’ll have to amend my opinion of him.”

Peter licked the cool ranch residue off his fingers. “That’s what you took from that story?”

“No, obviously not. I just thought it would lighten the mood.” When Peter didn’t respond, MJ changed tactics. “Everything you’re saying makes sense, especially the part about there being no right answer.”

“I know!” said Peter, surprised by how much anger and anxiety he still had, even after explaining the whole thing. Wasn’t that supposed to give him perspective? Didn’t Oprah say that, or something?

MJ reached out and swatted him. It was a little harder than she normally would have, but that was just because she knew about his freaky regenerative muscles for sure, now. “I wasn’t done, loser.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It sounds like everyone really cares. You have, like, 30 weird uncles looking out for you now who only want what best for you, and I know you really well. Enough to know you’re not going to feel better unless you come clean. And they’re all adults, so if they can’t get over themselves that’s kind of on them.” MJ looked at him, actually serious for once instead of deadpan. Until she gave him a tiny smirk and said, “you’d better introduce me to Captain America’s dog, after. Or I’ll kill you and this will all have been for nothing.”

Peter bumped her with his shoulder. “Like you could kill Spiderman.”

“Oh, I could.”

“Yeah, you could.”

Of course the minute Peter had a plan everything came crashing down. Steve and Natasha still weren’t back by the end of the week and Peter couldn’t keep up the excuses about being with Bucky and Hildy any longer, so he figured Monday. He usually spent Monday afternoons with Tony after AcaDec anyways. Mondays were suit upgrade days, complete with pizza in the lab and Peter trying to get Tony to admit Harry Styles saved rock ‘n roll. There wasn’t precedent for potentially Earth shattering secrets but sometimes Tony deviated from the plan and let Peter put on Kiwi, so he figured deviation was okay.

He should have known it was dumb to hook Karen up to the room’s speaker systems for testing. He should have never given Bucky the ability to send Karen messages in the first place. But he’d been so worried about Steve and he’d wanted to know right away when he was back, so he wasn’t thinking straight.

He should have learned from Peggy Carter and understood that Captain America had terrible timing.

Peter was fiddling with a web shooter when it happened: “Peter, I just received a message from ‘Buckeroo.’ Captain Rogers has returned safely along with Agent Romanoff.”

There was a long beat of silence where Peter was simultaneously relieved and also hoping beyond hope that Tony hadn’t been paying attention. The strained “what?” that came from the lab bench behind Peter got rid of both feelings pretty quickly. “Who’s accessing Karen?”

Peter stood up. “Here’s the thing,” he said, talking too fast and stumbling over his words just like he hadn’t wanted to do, “the thing is that I was going to tell you about it today! Everything, I mean, like every little detail –“

Tony held up a hand and Peter stopped talking. “Please just answer the question.”

“Bucky Barnes,” said Peter. Tony squeezed his eyes shut and brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose, a gesture Peter wasn’t unfamiliar with. It meant he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, or didn’t want to, and so Peter figured it was best to get it all out there at once, just to have it done with. “I’ve kind of been… hanging out with him and Steve.”

“Hanging out?”

“Yeah, like, first aid for minor scrapes and bruises, sparring practice, the occasional family dinner.” Peter had thought going for the lighthearted joke would help Tony process, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

“Let me get this straight,” Tony said, and now he was pacing, an urgent not to his voice matching the intensity of his strides like he was seconds away from running or screaming or taking Peter’s suit away again. “Not only did you break safety protocol by giving someone else access to Karen, that someone is a known rogue who’s killed hundreds of people. And you’ve been letting him fight you and administer first aid?”  
  


“I also… take his dog on walks sometimes.” Peter’s voice was small, and Tony’s was only getting louder.

“So he killed my parents, and now you walk his dog!” Tony shouted. It wasn’t directed at Peter, more at the general absurdity of the situation, but Peter still felt every word like a punch. “Well then that makes it all better.”

Peter held his hands in front of him, trying to placate Tony even a little bit. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. I was going to say something –“

“How long has this been going on?” asked Tony, and now something other than anger was beginning to settle on his face.

“A few months,” Peter said. “Since the time I got shot.”

“I thought I took his number out of the database.”

“He came to find me,” Peter said, “he was worried! At first it was just little stuff, like stitches and juice boxes, but he offered to help me more. He’s a good guy. Bucky, too. They’re just as messed up as –“

Peter knew he’d messed up the second he said it but that didn’t stop the expression on Tony’s face, the quiet betrayal that turned his features into a cold mask. His lips quivered a little as he said, “as messed up as who?”

And Peter knew what he should say. That he was sorry, that he didn’t mean it like that, that he never wanted to hurt Tony. But damn it, MJ was right. Tony was an adult, and he should know that already.

“As messed up as us!” Peter burst out. “What we do isn’t easy, okay, and they understood all of it. And I felt bad the _whole_ _time_ , because I knew how you felt about them but I finally had people I could go to that wouldn’t be disappointed if I got in a stupid fight, or stop me from helping people who need help!”

The web shooter Peter had been holding cracked in his fist, little webs coating the table and cascading off. Tony took a step forward, saying “okay, kid, calm down,” but Peter wasn’t done. What he didn’t say now would never get said.

“You’ve seen my DNA. You’ve seen Steve’s and Bucky’s. It’s coded in there! I can’t be a normal person, because I’ve got this responsibility. I can help, so I should. But I’m tired of always being worried about how scared you’re gonna be, or how disappointed you’ll look when I do something wrong. Like you wish you never gave me my suit back.” Peter was breathing hard, still gripping the remains of the web shooter in his fingers. “And I’ll take all the family I can get, these days.”

Tony was reminded suddenly and forcefully of the one time he’d gotten Peter talking about Ben, his gentle giant of an uncle who gave him piggyback rides and took him to Mets games and bled out in his arms when he was thirteen. Of course he was looking for family, Tony thought, and then couldn’t stop himself from wondering why he wasn’t enough on his own. “Gimme a minute to process this,” he said, trying to get over the childish voice in his head that seemed to rule whenever Steve Rogers was involved.

It took a long moment, but eventually Tony grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and shrugged it on. “Karen said he was back from somewhere?”

“What?”

“I’ll drive you over there. Just don’t expect me to go inside,” Tony said over his shoulder on the way out of the lab. Peter was still standing at his lab bench, staring. “Come on, kid, let’s go.”

He must have known it was just a way for Tony to avoid his emotions even more, because he kept silent on the elevator ride down and even as they got in the car, as though it was still Tony’s turn to speak. Being on the road helped, like it always did. The asphalt and New York pedestrians were an excuse for Tony to be able to speak without looking. Armor without nanotech but armor nonetheless. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re disappointing me. Ever. Cause it’s not possible.”

“It is,” Peter said quietly. “After the ferry, you –“

“That was a mistake,” Tony said. It felt good to finally admit it. “I didn’t really know you. I said I wanted you to be better than me, but that’s your baseline. You’re already a thousand times better than me.”

“I’m not.”

They stopped at a light and Tony turned to look Peter in the eyes, so he knew Tony wasn’t kidding. “I get scared because I couldn’t handle losing you, not because I don’t trust you. Because you’re a pain in my ass and I love you and that’s all I’ll say about it.”

“Okay,” Peter responded, and Tony could hear the smile in his voice.

The light turned and Tony sped straight. “You’re gonna have to give FRIDAY the address, I’m just heading in the general direction of Brooklyn,” Tony said.

“Oh, yeah,” spluttered Peter, rattling off the address as Tony switched on the music and pressed on the gas.

The building was old and unassuming, exactly what Tony would have guessed Rogers would pick, if anyone had asked him. Peter jumped out of the car and practically ran up the stoop, stopping just before he hit the buzzer as if to make sure Tony was still okay with everything. He shot the kid a thumbs up and that was all he needed to do, it seemed, for Peter to slam his finger on the buzzer and hold it down.

“It’s Peter!” he shouted into the shitty microphone. “Hildy called and said she needed pets!”

Hildy must be the dog, Tony figured from where he was leaning on the hood of the car. He wasn’t actively trying to look cool and aloof, but he also knew that in a standoff with Cap he did better leaning and/or slouching, playing up the bad boy vibe. Not that this was a standoff, since they were both here for Peter, but he figured it couldn’t hurt.

The door buzzed open and Peter disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time if the glimpse Tony got before the door closed was anything to go by. It only took five minutes for him to reemerge, accompanied by a pit bull on a leash, wagging her tail so hard she was walking in zig zags. Steve and Bucky were right behind them, waiting warily on the stoop.

Rogers looked worse for wear, with bags under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, but there was a contentment about him Tony wasn’t used to. As for Bucky, well. Tony wasn’t quite up to looking at him just yet.

“This is Hildy,” Peter said, struggling to keep the dog form running right up to Tony and jumping all over him. “She’s very important to me, so please be nice.”

Tony gave the dog a cursory wave and then zeroed in on Rogers. “So,” he said. “You’ve been taking care of my kid?”

Peter stopped dead in his tracks and rested a hand on Hildy’s head. She calmed down only marginally.

“He told me he belongs to an Italian nurse,” Rogers started.

Tony held up a hand. “Semantics.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling ever so slightly. The expression was painfully familiar. “Okay, sure. Your kid.”

“You can have partial custody, on a trial basis.” Tony’s eyes flicked down to where Steve’s hand was intertwined with Barnes’, and something inside of him cracked, then melted. “Don’t screw him up.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Steve.

He started to go inside but Tony pushed himself off the hood of the car, calling out, “Barnes!”

Bucky turned and nodded at Tony to continue, his expression guarded.

“I never go to thank you, for patching him up a while back. Very neat stitches.”

Peter snorted a laugh into Hildy’s fur and she started to wiggle again, ever so slightly. Bucky held out a hand and Peter dragged Hildy back up to him, handed over the leash. He put a hand on Peter’s curls and mussed them up while Tony fought to keep his expression even. “You’re welcome.”

Peter’s grin could have lit up Citi Field.

A month later found Peter and Tony in the car again, on their way to Thursday night dinner. This time, when Peter bounded up the steps, Tony was behind him. It was still tense, but hey. Anything for their kid.

**Author's Note:**

> this was rachel's birthday present and her birthday was 5 months ago so everyone say a big sorry to rachel on my behalf. that also means this took me 5 months and it's the first, like, ~long~ spiderman fic i've ever written so my apologies for inconsistencies and the fact that i know nothing about technology and yet still love writing peter in the SI research labs. my bad on that one. 
> 
> but thank you for reading, i love kudos and comments, etc etc. i'm also emullz on tumblr if you wanna check me out but that's not mandatory either. k bye love u


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